Really Gone
by Alohaemora
Summary: An early morning conversation between Arthur and George, two weeks before the Weasleys' first Christmas without Fred.


12 December 1998

It was a terribly cold winter morning. It wasn't snowing—it had snowed quite heavily in the past several days, but this morning, the blizzard had finally abated, leaving behind only a needle-sharp wind that whistled relentlessly through the Burrow's back garden, biting into Arthur's skin.

Drawing his cloak more snugly around his shoulders, Arthur hummed to himself as he made his way across the yard, towards his garden shed. Considering everything that had happened in the past year, Arthur was beginning to appreciate these stolen moments of peace and normalcy more and more each day. The previous summer had been long, and grueling, and exhausting. Seeing Molly go through…well, Arthur still wasn't quite sure how to describe exactly what it was that she had gone through, but it had been the most difficult thing that he had ever had to watch. It was really only in the past few months that his wife had truly come back to herself, cooking, and cleaning, and fussing, and smiling. In fact, she was in the kitchen with Andromeda Tonks and little Teddy Lupin, at the very moment, fretting about the Christmas feast that she would be preparing in two weeks' time.

Shivering slightly, Arthur fumbled with the pocket of his cloak, reaching for his wand to unlock the shed. He had just closed his fingers around his wand when he saw it—a flutter of movement by the garden gate. Arthur froze in his tracks, clutching his wand tightly—but then, he saw who it was, and he nearly cried out in shock.

George, wrapped in several layers of Molly's homemade Christmas jumpers, was leaning against the fence, gazing at the shed with a very strange expression. Arthur stared at his son—but it appeared that George hadn't noticed him. Shaking his head, Arthur called out, "George!"

George jumped a mile in the air, his hand shooting reflexively for his wand. But then, his eyes landed on his father and his shoulders relaxed, though his expression did not. "Dad?"

Arthur raised his hand and waved his son over. George remained rooted to the spot for a long moment, his face hesitant—and Arthur felt a pang of sadness—but then, at last, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and began making his way down the yard, his footsteps crunching in the layer of day-old snow that blanketed the lawn.

Apart from Molly, George was the only member of the family that Arthur had been lucky to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of, during the months following the Battle. The only difference was that while Molly had merely taken refuge in her bedroom, George had been known to haunt slightly more questionable locations. Once the Leaky Cauldron had banned him from their premises, he had made a habit of spending his nights hopping from Muggle pub to Muggle pub and drinking himself into a stupor. Arthur still vividly recalled George's lowest point, the evening of Percy's twenty-second birthday. George had showed up an hour late, completely intoxicated, and had proceeded to punch Percy squarely in the nose.

But now, as George came closer, it was with a slight thrill that Arthur noticed that despite his still-thinned-out appearance and the overgrown shagginess of his flaming red hair, George looked far more put-together than Arthur had seen him in months. His beard was gone, as were the dark purple shadows under his eyes. Arthur knew that this improved state was partially due to the combined efforts of Ron and Ginny, who had both proven themselves to be bravely unhindered by and utterly unaccepting of George's drunken antics. But as Arthur had recently discovered, they were not alone in inspiring this new version of George—the twins' old friend, Angelina Johnson, had been another driving force. From what Arthur had managed to worm out of Ron, the two had been spending quite a lot of time together. Arthur had deliberately neglected to mention this to Molly—it seemed a little early for her to be pulling out her wedding planner.

"What brings you here so early?" Arthur smiled, as George finally reached the shed.

George shuffled his feet awkwardly with his hands still in his pockets, avoiding his father's gaze. "I was just…in the area."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but did not pursue the matter. Nearly three decades of parenting experience had taught him better than that. Instead, he merely waved his wand at the door of his shed, causing the lock to spring off and the door to creak open. "Well, let's get out of the cold, then, shall we?" He gestured to the doorway, and George trailed slowly inside, Arthur at his heels.

Flicking his wand to ignite the old oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the shed, Arthur nudged the door shut with his hip. Then, he strode over to the far right corner of the room, where Sirius Black's nearly-repaired motorbike was sitting under an old canvas tarp. Peeling the tarp away from the vehicle, Arthur stepped back and scrutinized it.

"Wow, Dad," George's tone was impressed, as he walked forward and stared at the bike. "How did you get this? I thought Sirius's bike was destroyed."

"Ted Tonks sent me most of the pieces last summer, and I've been fixing it up," Arthur said, beaming proudly as he patted the gleaming handlebars. "I'm planning on giving it back to Harry for Christmas."

George stiffened slightly, and Arthur turned and looked at him. "Something wrong?"

George coughed uncomfortably, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at his feet. "No—er—I mean…" he trailed off, biting his lip. "It's just…about Christmas."

Arthur frowned, turning away from the bike to face George. "George…you aren't planning on missing Christmas, are you?" he asked seriously.

George's ear turned red. "No," he said quickly. "Well, I—I was at first—but—" he broke off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "But then, Angelina—d'you remember her? We went to Hogwarts together. Well—she—she told me she'd hex me into another universe if she found out I'd put Mum through that," he finished shamefacedly, swallowing.

Arthur felt his appreciation for Angelina swell, as he watched George carefully. "Smart girl."

George let out a short bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Mental, more like," he muttered, and Arthur chuckled softly.

Then, George looked up and met Arthur's gaze for the first time that morning—and with a slight blow to his chest, Arthur saw a familiar mixture of overwhelming darkness, sorrow, and guilt flicker behind his son's eyes. "I just…I didn't know if—if there'd be room for me," George said quietly. "I haven't—" he paused, swallowing heavily, "—I haven't exactly been a—a very good son the past few months."

An enormous lump swelled in Arthur's throat, but he ignored it. Shaking his head, he stepped forward and gripped George's shoulder tightly. "George," he said firmly. "There will always— _always_ —be room for you here. No matter what. Do you understand?"

George nodded stiffly, smiling faintly at Arthur, and Arthur smiled back at him. Then, sighing, Arthur turned around and knelt down in front of the motorcycle, drawing his wand and examining the exhaust pipe. For several minutes, there was comfortable silence in the garden shed, punctuated only by the scraping and scuffling of screws and bolts tightening themselves, as Arthur directed his wand at them.

Suddenly, George cleared his throat. "I visited the grave today," he said in a low voice.

Arthur paused with his wand hovering over a loose rivet, glancing up at his son. He was quiet for a few moments. "That must've been difficult for you," he said softly.

George shrugged noncommittally, fiddling with a speck of lint on the sleeve of his jumper. Then, he turned and looked at Arthur. "I've never really understood the point of talking to a headstone," he said bluntly.

Arthur gave George a wry smile. "To be honest, neither have I." It was the truth. While Molly faithfully visited the Hogsmeade Memorial Cemetery at least once a week, Arthur himself had only seen his son's grave a handful of times since the funeral.

George looked at him in surprise. "You don't?"

Arthur sighed softly, climbing to his feet and dusting off his hands. "Not really," he said gently. "But only because…I—I see him in a lot of other places—like the dent near the bottom of the stairs, from when he fell down them as a toddler—and his favorite seat at the dining table, by the kitchen window—and that ugly green mug in the cupboard that he used to drink hot cocoa from every Christmas morning."

George pressed his lips together, nodding. "And the flat," he added quietly, staring down at his feet. "I still haven't opened his bedroom."

Arthur's chest constricted with emotion, as he gazed at George. There were a lot of things he could have said to fill the silence—that time would make it easier, that he was inexpressibly proud of George for even stepping foot in the old flat at all—but Arthur knew that George understood all of it, had likely heard the words numerous times already.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Arthur and he stood upright, startling George. Turning around and waving his wand at the old tarp to cover the bike, Arthur snatched up his cloak from the worktable and strode to the door of the shed, gesturing for George to follow him.

"Where're we going?" George asked breathlessly, frowning sideways at his father, as the two of them hurried across the backyard, towards the garden gate.

"To the village," Arthur said vaguely, opening the gate and allowing George out before stepping out himself. "I found something the other day that I'd like to show you."

George stared at his father warily, as Arthur closed the garden gate and latched it. "What did you find?"

Arthur waved his hand, smiling. "You'll see."

And before George could say another word, Arthur seized his arm and turned on the spot, twisting into the familiar crushing darkness. A few seconds later, they reemerged at the top of a very steep foothill, George coughing and spluttering.

"A little—warning—would've been—nice, Dad," George croaked, clutching his side. After a few moments, he straightened, his teeth chattering slightly from the new cold, and stared around at his surroundings. "Wait a minute—this isn't the village. This is beyond—it's Stoatshead Hill."

Arthur smiled at his son and began to trudge towards a cluster of tall sycamore trees at the center of the hilltop. "Do you remember that summer when Ron and Ginny came down with Dragon Pox? I took you, Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Fred camping out here one weekend to get you all out of your mum's hair."

George was quiet for a moment, as he walked alongside his father. Then— "Yeah," he said softly. "Fred hated it."

Arthur snorted. "And yet, that didn't stop the two of you from wreaking havoc the entire time."

George grinned—a real grin, one of the first that Arthur had seen in months. It lit up his bright brown eyes, warming Arthur from the inside. "Well, to be fair, that would've happened no matter where we were," George said lightly.

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes, and strolled into the little thicket of sycamore trees, looking around. Frowning in concentration, he began walking from tree to tree, peering down at the different trunks.

"Dad, why can't you just _tell_ me what you found?" George asked dully, after several, long moments of watching his father do this.

Arthur repressed a smile. While George had always been the more patient of the twins, _patience_ was a virtue that neither Fred nor George had ever truly been able to boast.

Then, suddenly, Arthur found what he was looking for, and a jolt of something electric shot through him. "Look, George."

George stumbled forward, shivering and muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. But then, he caught sight of what his father was pointing at, and he immediately fell silent, his eyes widening slightly. Carved into the trunk of the nearest tree were nine words.

SIRS GRED AND FORGE  
Knights of Ottery St. Catchpole

"I remember waking up in the morning and finding your sleeping bags empty," Arthur said quietly, watching George's profile. "I don't think I'd ever been so scared in my life. But when I ran out of the tent and found you two carving this into the tree, I—I couldn't even be angry—I was just so relieved, knowing you were both all right…" Arthur's voice tapered off, and he closed his eyes against the bitter wind as it stung his face.

George swallowed heavily, stepping closer to the tree, and Arthur followed him. There was a long silence.

Then, at last— "We were idiots, thinking we could get away with anything," George said quietly.

Arthur let out a slow, deep breath, as he reached out and gently traced the 'G' in 'GRED' with his thumb.

"You were young and brave," he said softly. He turned around to face George. "Besides," he added, patting the tree trunk, "he hasn't really gone anywhere, has he?"

George tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it—and Arthur saw his jaw clench. Without a word, Arthur stepped forward and pulled his son into a crushing embrace, trying to absorb his pain, his sorrow, the dark shadow that hung so conspicuously over him. And George, who for so long had refused to allow anyone near him, clung to Arthur just as tightly, his breathing sharp and shallow—but _real_ —and in that moment, Arthur could not have wished for anything more.

* * *

Author's Note:

There were a million other things I probably should've been doing when I decided to write this one-shot. XD Good God, I have so much work to do. Anyway, this is a fleshed-out version of my Arthur/George drabble from my Weasley story called 'Ties That Bind.' I hope you enjoyed this! Drop me a line, telling me what you think!

Ari


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